


Today's rain

by oujitino



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Metaphors, Moving On, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oujitino/pseuds/oujitino
Summary: At the very end, there is a labyrinth. It's Osamu's turn to enter.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, suna rintarou/miya osamu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Today's rain

**Author's Note:**

> very short osasuna/sunaosa post break up that i suddenly thought of askdhja it's prose mixed with poetics!! semi betaed bc like a heartbreak, nothing is sensible. (im not making excuses pls) i blame omoinotake for this. You can listen to [this](https://open.spotify.com/album/2xnrTv2fd77wRxaoQnxzIt?si=mT4_SYc8SLmKLy88C9ejCQ) or [this](https://open.spotify.com/album/42NxgS2qRCY4Elzg9onhzP?si=ZOMs7mGNRnuhvPPt50UkuQ) while reading! I love both songs!

Every ding the cafe door creates is a mild reminder to Osamu.

A certain, generic, hollow, fated reminder. A daily haunting from sunrise to moon lights.

His shifts are passive, sometimes roaring. A few mountains, uphills and downhills. Glimpses of breezy afternoons, orange whisked flamingo hues of a heavenly sky. Loneliness, stillness—waters Osamu can’t tread. His palms are cold, hard to the touch. Back slouched against wiped counters, his mask and voice are being pulled by a gravity of null. To a center that used to belong to him.

Five hour shifts are merciful. Eight hours is his limit. The telephone ring is too familiar, an echo that pierces Osamu even in his four walled beige apartment. Specifically at 2 AM, along with the infomercials that can’t bore him to an inch of shut eye. He oversleeps, a habit he’s not supposed to be inhaling. That’s Atsumu, he says. Osamu forgets to turn off the stove. That’s Atsumu, again. 

Playing the blame game. 

With you and me.

Osamu dreams, awake and in the pretense of sleep. To fond memories of firsts and the wounds of lasts. Nightmares, demons and 4 AM alcohol swigs. Wishing for fractured bones to make it less of a mistake. Lesser of an injury. Minor cuts and bruises so it disappears faster. Easier. Better. Not this gnawing sensation in Osamu’s throat, not the breathlessness—not wanting to miss you at 2 AM with our infomercials. Not your clothes still lingering around. Not the slightest hints of you in this pit, now a grave of mine.

You’re gone. I can’t realign myself.

Osamu paces. He smiles. His customer service act doesn’t falter. His calloused fingers don't twitch at identical names. His stomach doesn’t curl into a cyclone at faces all too similar, sharp corners and unstricken expressions. Osamu unlearns, day by day. The ideals of a shared future with a partner. He unpacks the baggages, suitcases they’ve tucked on the side only they know what’s inside. Dismembering the chains of a taken man, now an empty one. Learning how to live with the ghost of Suna’s lips on his skin; learning how to forgive himself for that night.

Osamu is his own fiend, both friendly and a danger. He eats only to survive, devoids himself of human pleasure and lets his mind dive into murky puddles. He lets the remnants of scotch absorb the walls of his ache, pouring it over the fiery glaze of anything that still makes sense. Osamu wants to forget, just for a second. Let him forget. Don’t remind him of their firsts, their night outs, the train rides—don’t. Stop this pain. I want it to stop. Make it stop.

Another ding from the door and Osamu’s on it. He slips on the perfect calmness to provide the best service. Osamu rings the order up easily, this compared to anything else, is a brainless movement. Here, in this minimum wage slavery, Osamu can function with ease. He doesn’t turn the espresso timer a millisecond away from completion, Osamu presses the button swiftly on the green. He doesn’t let it wait, pouring in the cloudy foam until the steamed milk mixes in all the way to the brim of the cup. It’s perfect. His creations are perfect.

Humans are both flesh and vivid. Real and individualistic.

Him and Suna were almost endless.

Osamu spots pieces and fragments of him through crowds. Bodies that simply tried to provide what it can and what Osamu thought it would. A look alike won’t settle it. Same personalities can’t take into account the same opinions. Tones of words won’t produce the same exact immaculate whimpers and grunts. Osamu wants to stop painting Suna over somebody else that’s not entirely him. He seeks the freedom from this bottomless well, one that furthers into the ground, so narrow and suspecting.

One that is excruciatingly named after the living.

Their curse of a label, high school sweethearts, the glue Osamu can’t seem to burn off. It’s stuck. What was once an everyday routine turned into slow dancing under pole lights, what it was to Osamu and Suna, are now being carried away by the pungent air of separation. It’s never coming back. Osamu blames himself. Suna’s never coming back home. There is peace within chaos and an eye of a storm is waiting in its bed. Osamu is waiting for his final outburst. When are you arriving? Tell me, so I can parade around town with a bottle of jack and tears.

Cycles that Osamu relives in and weighs against time. The cooking and food planning are bigger steps he can’t take on yet. The sight of the local park that makes him alter directions. Osamu’s body is turning into an ice box, he was the furnace in the relationship. Osamu starts drinking plain black’s in the morning. Another for the road. Last one at 3AM. Variation is expectancy. Osamu sticks to a path of moving staircases. Unknown destinations and cliff hangers.

One mishap leads to a spill. A broken mug and stains on linoleum. Osamu assures his boss everything is okay, it was just an untimely slip. His fault. Osamu accepts his guilt, too late in the process of rediscovering what he is before them. What comes after Suna. What there was with him. Who Suna was and his orbital rule in Osamu’s existence. The realism of his planes. His monochromatic reserved self that animated colors in his first landing, followed by two’s and three’s. Suna’s remainder in Osamu’s what was, what is it now, what it could be—unresolved. Hanging. Osamu gasps, teeth clenching on bottom lip to silence the despair in his mouth.

This ruptured ceramic shouldn’t remind me of you.

Or what I am sans you.

Sweeping it away, piling it neatly as if there’s still life in it. Osamu dumps it because this is normal. Accidents are inevitable. People drift, disagreements generate tremors. Once it hits the crescendo, the orchestra applying vicious strains in the eruption, there are only high pitches of octaves. The drop of heavy strings, increasing rhythm and its force of volumes.

This is no rave, can we lower our voices down?

Osamu tells Atsumu how the oxygen in his body is slowly cooling down to temperatures impossible to man. The howling mist is pooling, in his stomach as a starting line, thousands of roundabouts and an empty birdcage in his chest—encapsulated in patches of ice. The tides have stopped coming. The winged creature you have taken, is it alive? Is it beating? Is it still singing the songs you fancied so much? Will you let it free? For me?

I had given it to you. How selfish of me to ask for its return.

“Has he contacted you? For his things?” Atsumu is abrasive, no brakes.

Osamu isn’t in the mood to throw punches. No matter how much Atsumu asks for it, how much the words he’s spitting can only be responded with a beating. Osamu has lost in all of the matches. Lost the only constant he ever needed. His soul is out there, somewhere. Is he as lost as I am? Is he sailing adrift in seas of new chances? Is there one for Osamu? A brand of his own beginning, for someone that’s so incomplete like him.

“No.” He can make a list of what’s left. Garments, sneakers, photographs, old furniture. All too priceless. All that meant the world to Osamu, how Suna filled Osamu’s years with riches—showered him with sunflowers, adventures, fireworks, stardust. All compiled in a box or three, waiting for the owner, maybe. Osamu doesn’t ponder on the idea of meeting Suna, even when they have to for formality’s sake. For their sake.

Osamu’s done everything for Suna’s sake.

It wasn’t enough. He was never fit for the cut.

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

What else does Atsumu know? Osamu starts.

“I can’t let you rot in here ‘samu.”

Maybe that’s what he needs. Limb eating bacteria to cure this.

“C’mon. We’re goin’ out. Let’s go.”

Atsumu drags him into another shot of alcohol stake outs and blaring edms, along with friends he hasn’t kept up with for reasons all too known. No infomercials to look at, no coffee breaks to check. Osamu wants to keep trying. For his sake, this time. He wants to wake up with Suna’s belongings gone from his apartment. No ghosts, no more illusions. Let’s stop making this about love. It’s gone. Osamu’s old high school sweetheart has taken the winged creature in his chest for reasons they both deny.

Osamu wants a new one. For himself. For sake keeping.

Osamu wants to heal. Sometime soon; hopeful.

And the second he gets there, no one knows when.

The cage will stay empty, until then.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated!
> 
> im @ [twt!!](https://www.twitter.com/mtskwa) talk to me about ships pls


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